


John Hates Weddings (But Liked the Result of This One)

by AwkwardTiming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal, Kissing, M/M, almost a casefic, alternate first meeting, blowjob, it tries to have a plot, sherlock's a bartender, showering, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 19:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4679408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardTiming/pseuds/AwkwardTiming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hates weddings. He's never been to one that went well. This one is no exception. He's slept with the bride. And the groom. It's all a bit complicated, really. So he escapes to grab a quick, quiet drink at the hotel bar to fortify himself to finish out the reception. But the bartender's a bit fascinating, and they do a bit of running, and, all in all, John thinks the next day, it wasn't the WORST wedding he'd ever been to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Hates Weddings (But Liked the Result of This One)

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for this nonsense, please?

John wasn’t sure – 4 hours in – why he’d agreed to come to the wedding in the first place. Or why he’d bothered to stay after the first two conversations.

Certainly not after the entire bridal party put together that he’d slept with each person to a man – or woman.

Including the newlyweds.

But Sasha and Richard were both kind, fun people and despite John’s continued misgivings, they had seemed so happy to see him. And there had been no surprise about who he’d slept with to either of them. Sasha had engaged him in conversation about Harry and his work in the clinic. Richard had wanted stories about his time in the military. Both of them encouraged him to come for a bit of a holiday in Brighton when he next had the time.

The rest of the guests he’d had the dubious pleasure of talking to had been less welcoming.

Not that John was particularly surprised to not be enjoying the wedding. He rarely did. The first wedding he’d ever attended – at 6 – had been a study in awkward, too. And cheek pinching. And getting trapped at the table with his aunt, uncle, and his uncle’s third mistress. And his 14 year old sister who kept stealing his uncle’s drinks.

That wedding had ended with a car fire and a broken window.

There’d been a wedding where the reception had ended with the newlyweds going off with other people for their wedding night. John had been surprised when he returned to find that that particular couple was still married and evidently quite devoted to each other.

There’d been Harry’s wedding to Clara. She’d invited their family to the ceremony but barred them from the reception. Without explicitly telling them. Or Clara.

There’d been Miller’s wedding. Miller had neglected to mention his engagement to John during the six months they’d spent together together. He’d made sure to get an invitation to John though and John had felt like it would be churlish to refuse.

And the wedding where he’d ended up serving as part of the catering staff because they were short-handed and he didn’t mind, right? He was in a tux, after all. Because he’d been asked to be the best man.

Or the wedding where the groom married his twin brother’s wife’s sister. Who didn’t speak English. And wore a see-through dress. In a church. John was as open-minded as the next chap, but really. That was taking it a bit far, he thought.

Or the wedding where the bride refused to acknowledge any member of the groom’s family.

So, really, John shouldn’t have been surprised that he wasn’t particularly enjoying this wedding.  
\------  
Sherlock checked his phone for the sixth time in as many minutes. He really wished that Sebastian hadn’t passed his name along to “a good friend of mine – owns a hotel. Suspects one of the front desk staff is running something illegal out of one of the rooms. You can look into it, yeah?”

Sherlock had determined, within 15 minutes of arrival that the “something” was allowing his friends in to watch porn on the pay-per-view channels and moving the charges to other rooms. Now he had to wait till the end of this shift to find the manager and get in contact with the owner. 

Sherlock restacked the glasses for the fourth time. Or he could just leave, he supposed. Tell Sebastian he’d found nothing. The kid was being rather clever about it all. He was unlikely to get caught by anyone else looking in to it.

Just as he decided that he would, in fact, just leave, someone sat down at the bar. Sherlock turned, prepared to tell him the bar was closed.

“Afganistan or Iraq?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Everything about the man screamed former military. Short hair, tan face, lines around his eyes from squinting at the sun too long. The utter rigidity of his posture, even relaxed.

The man frowned. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’ve been invalided home. Afganistan or Iraq?”

“Ehm. Afganistan, actually. How did you …”

“Your left shoulder is higher than your right and your tan doesn’t extend beyond your wrists. Invalided home and quite recently. You must be a guest at the wedding.”

“Yeah, actually. I was in the same unit as the bride. Incredible.”

They stared at each other a moment. Sherlock gave himself a small shake. “Did you want a drink?”

“Yes, actually, a –“

“Whiskey, neat?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock poured two fingers of Connemara into a glass and set it on a napkin in front of the newcomer.

“Cheers.” Sherlock turned to straighten the liquor on the wall behind the bar. As he reached for the first bottle, the man spoke again. “As you’ve rather brilliantly figured me out maybe you can help me – that’s what bartenders do, right? Sort out your problems for you while you drink?”

Sherlock turned again and waited for the man to continue.

“Is there a polite way to ask the bride why she’s invited you to her wedding?”

Sherlock tilted his head. Whatever he’d seen in this man, an issue with being at the wedding wasn’t among those things.

“It’s just – I’ve slept with her. And with every one of her bridesmaids. And the groom. And the groom’s best man and his wife. There’s a joke about me being try-continental. While on the continent, I’d try anything once. Or five times – to be sure. And she knew about it. So why invite me? And then pressure me into coming. I don’t think it was just to embarrass me, but she’s certainly made me uncomfortable more than once this evening.”

“Oh?” Sherlock was realizing that the man was very likely much more drunk than he’d realized. Or just an incredible lightweight. His glass had been emptied rather quickly.

“Maybe she just wanted me there for torture or her own amusement. After all, 70% of the reason to go to a wedding when you are completely single is to shag someone and there is literally no one there I could shag without making something awkward with people I will very likely see again.”

“Or perhaps she just likes your company.”

“Well that’s just lovely, then isn’t it? Make me uncomfortable because you enjoy my company. Enjoy seeing me off-kilter more like. It’s great to appreciate my company, but I was really rather hoping –” he stopped talking abruptly, as though suddenly realizing that he’d been going on and on about it to a complete stranger. A very attractive complete stranger. “Sorry. Christ, sorry. I probably sound like an absolute drunk looney. I’m not. Drunk. Or a looney. Just frustrated. It’s been an evening of excessively polite conversation in excessively awkwardly comprised groups.”

“And after spending the last two weeks with your alcoholic brother, it’s the last thing you were really in the mood for, much as you enjoyed the opportunity to get away for a bit?”

The man gave him a shrewd look. Sherlock found himself awkwardly aroused by it. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of such a thing. “Alcoholic brother?”

He cleared his throat. “Just a guess.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Guess?”

“You keep checking your phone. You enjoyed the whiskey, but haven’t been drinking and turned your glass over immediately to indicate you didn’t wish a second drink. So, sibling, probably alcoholic. You’re recovering, but you’re taking care of them not the other way around and while you’re happy to be away, you’re also worried and want to stay in contact.”

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Just odd.”

He smiled and extended a hand. “I’m John, by the way. You are very clever with that mouth of yours. Mind of yours. Sorry.”

Sherlock shook the proffered hand and politely ignored what John had said. “Sherlock.” 

“Harry’s my sister, though, actually. Not brother.”

“Ah.” Sherlock frowned. “There’s always…”A movement at the corner of his eye had him looking up sharply to see the young man with the porn-loving friends say something to a coworker, check all the cameras, and slip out the back. He looked back to John. “Feel like coming for a run?”

“What?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, vaulting over the counter and making his way swiftly through the lobby. John considered for less than half a second before following. Whatever was going on was very likely much more interesting than anything else he was likely to do for the remainder of the evening.

John followed Sherlock past the concierge desk and through a staff entrance only to be pulled into a stairwell. He started to protest, but Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth and whispered into his ear. “We’ll need to follow once they head out back.”

John nodded to show he understood. 

Sherlock listened as the young man arranged for the two men to deliver the “cases” up to room 1454 and said that the money would be under the pillow. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent Lestrade a quick text to come quickly for a drugs bust.

With a nod to his new companion, Sherlock quickly and quietly made his way up the set of stairs behind them, knowing the delivery boys would go up the other set of stairs. Around floor 11, John was regretting his decision. When they hit floor 12 and Sherlock gave him an appraising look – one filled with approval – John set his shoulders and determined he would finish as strongly as he’d begun.

When Lestrade arrived 15 minutes later, Sherlock was sending a text while John subdued both of the men who had brought the case. 

“What’s all this then, Freak?” Sally asked.

“Ah, Sally. Lovely to see you too,” Sherlock replied. “These gentlemen were making a delivery. The money is still under the lamp between the beds. The case is untouched.”

“Right. So what happened?” Lestrade asked looking between Sherlock and the man holding down two rough customers on his own.

“Well. The charming young man at the front desk was allowing his friends to watch porn videos on the TV in this room and charging them to other guests. As it turns out, the porn was a convenience. The friends were actually dropping the money off in the room for the rather sizeable quantity of cocaine I believe you will find in that case. If caught there was an obvious, and embarrassing, reason the friends had been there. Of course, the clerk was just a dupe. Your real culprit here is,”

“Mr. Holmes?” a man wearing a pinstripe suit entered the room and John had to resist the urge to compare him to the upper class twit of the year contestants.

“Ah, good. Lestrade, this is Reginald Henry St. James. The Rail King you’ve been looking for, I believe.”

Reginald’s face went scarlet. “That is preposterous,” he spluttered.

“Not at all. You got your nephew the job, convinced him to help you without actually explaining what he was helping you do. Quite clever you’ve been about it, too. Unfortunately, little Archie isn’t that good at staying hidden. Lestrade, you’ll find everything you need for a warrant to search his house in his office here at the hotel. This is the key. The rest will be in the personal safe behind his suits in his bedroom, text me if you need help figuring out the code. Now, if you’ll excuse me –” Sherlock moved around Lestrade to leave the room. “Coming John?”

“Now just wait. Sherlock, I need an actual statement. And possibly more information”

“You know where I live. Surely you can get it tomorrow. And I’ll text you the rest later.”

“From your friend as well.”

“Oh, I’m not his –” John began as Sherlock said, “I’m sure he’ll agree to come by the station tomorrow.”

Lestrade’s desire to object was all over his face, but with a tired nod, he waved them away.

“That was tedious,” Sherlock said as John said, “Marvelous.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. Absolutely wonderful. Best evening I’ve had in a long time. Best wedding I’ve been to ever.” It was on the tip of John’s tongue to add, “Even without sex,” but he kept that to himself. “Drink or are you – working? I’m guessing you’re not actually the bartender.”

“Correct.”

“Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“Ok.” John knew his expression made it quite clear he was hoping for a bit more information on the topic of Sherlock’s actual profession.

“I am a consulting detective.”

“Consulting?”

“I help out when the police need it. Take private cases.”

“What was this meant to be?”

“Helping a friend, actually. He knew something was going on with the room charges, but not what.”

“Incredible.”

“And yes.”

“Yes?”

“To the drink. We should have some time if you like. Alternately, you can take me back to your room and I can show you exactly how clever I am with my mouth.”

John gaped.

“You mentioned you found my mouth clever earlier. I am offering oral sex, among other things. If you are so inclined.”

The doors of the elevator pinged their arrival. In lieu of a verbal response, John quickly pressed 12 for his floor and slammed his hand to the door closed button before crowding Sherlock against the wall of the elevator. One hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, he said, “I really hope you were serious.”

Sherlock nodded and surged forward to kiss John. John used his free hand to tug Sherlock’s hips closer and Sherlock returned the favour by griping John’s hips and grinding against him slightly. When the elevator pinged again, they broke apart panting. 

“1217,” John breathed out.

Sherlock nodded and tugged John down the hall. As John fumbled to find and then use the key to his room, Sherlock kissed the back of his neck and slid one hand down John’s side and across the front of his grey slacks to cup the rapidly filling hardness there. John gasped, his head falling back to his Sherlock’s thud as the lock finally clicked open.

Sherlock reached around to the door handle and pushed it open with slightly more force than necessary, causing it to hit the wall more loudly than expected. John moved into the room quickly, Sherlock close behind. John reached for the light switch as the door swung closed. 

As the light clicked on, John turned. Sherlock was panting, his eyes dark with promise. John felt an answering smirk curve his own lips as he reached for the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and began to undo them while toeing off his own shoes. When Sherlock went to touch John, John made a softly warning noise and Sherlock let his hands drop. John suppressed a smile at the sight of those hands then clenching into fists and releasing again. It was good to feel wanted.

As he reached the bottom of the shirt, he tugged it from Sherlock’s trousers and stepped forward. He opened the shirt just enough to give him access to the skin underneath where he pressed open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s collarbones and sternum. While he kissed, he unbuttoned the cuffs, then pushed the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders. He smiled and laved one nipple, pinched it, then repeated the treatment on the other.

“John!” Sherlock gasped and then John felt himself marched backward toward the bed. As they moved, Sherlock’s clever fingers worked at John’s belt, button, and zipper. John’s knees hit the bed with unexpected force as his trousers and pants slid down to his ankles and John sat heavily on the edge of the bed. He tugged his shirt off over his head in one – surprisingly – smooth movement.

Sherlock’s grin was wicked, his hair in total disarray, as he sunk to his knees in front of John. He nudged John’s knees apart and placed a wet kiss to the inside of John’s right knee, the inside of John’s left thigh, then nuzzled the crease at his hip, nose brushing along warm flesh, his hot breath coming in waves over John’s erection. 

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes inspected every inch of his bared skin and struggled to remain still, feeling every muscle tense as Sherlock ran his hands up John’s legs and tugged him slightly closer. John swallowed heavily. Sherlock’s eyes were dark with promise as he stroked a firm hand along John’s cock. With the first touch of Sherlock’s tongue to the tip, all the breath left John’s body. When that same mouth then slid, slowly, all the way down, until that same tip hit the back of Sherlock’s throat, John’s hands clenched reflexively in an effort to remain upright, to not grab Sherlock’s hair, to focus well enough to remember every moment of this.

Sherlock’s lips were stretched obscenely around John as he worked the rigid flesh. As he pulled up, his tongue laved the head. Unable to resist, John lifted one hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as took him fully back into his mouth again. Sherlock groaned around him and the resulting vibrations made John’s hips jerk upward. 

“Fuck. Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock stilled and looked up and offered a slight hum, which made John’s breath catch in his throat. 

John shook his head trying to clear it, distracted every time he nearly managed it by subtle movements of Sherlock’s tongue. “Fuck,” John finally managed. “I’m close. And I… I just need. I want.”

Sherlock slowly slid his mouth up and off, smirking as he gave one final, strong suck at the tip, making John’s hips jerk again.

“Ok, then,” Sherlock said, his voice rough, “what would you like?” Sherlock was rising from his place between John’s legs, shucking his trousers and pants as he stood. 

As Sherlock’s remaining clothing his the ground, John tugged Sherlock down and over him with a hand on the back of his neck. With Sherlock kneeling above him, John nipped at Sherlock’s lower lip. He groaned at the taste of himself on Sherlock’s tongue as their kiss deepened. When Sherlock pulled away for a breath, John nipped at his ear, then said, “I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock pulled back and searched John’s face. John’s answering grin contained a challenge. With barely a pause, Sherlock was kissing him again, intent and promise in every stroke of tongue on tongue, every nip of teeth.

Without knowing quite how Sherlock had managed it, Sherlock had John maneuvered back against the pillows on the bed and was kissing his way down his chest. He pressed a kiss to John’s navel and looked up with a frown.

“Lube?” Sherlock asked.

It took John a moment to register the question. “Bag,” he responded, nodding his head in the direction of the overnight bag on the desk.

As Sherlock shifted and climbed from the bed, he paused and raised a hand to the back of his neck. “Uh. Condoms?”

John felt himself blush. He hadn’t even thought about them. “Bag as well. Side pocket.”

Sherlock nodded. John watched, trying to calm himself a bit so that he didn’t come like a teenager. But the flex of the muscles in Sherlock’s ass as he walked, the slight dimples above his hips, the hum of satisfaction as he found what he was looking for made John, if possible, harder. 

As Sherlock sauntered back to the bed, he quirked his head about John. “You sure about this?”

“Yes. Jesus, yes. I want you.”

Sherlock grinned. “I meant about – you usually top.”

“I… yes.”

“Have you bottomed before?”

“Uh. Yes. Once.”

“I don’t mind…”

“No, no I definitely want you in me.”

Any hesitation John might have felt at his choice was brushed aside by the wicked promise of Sherlock’s answering grin. Sherlock slid onto the bed next to John and kissed him, slowly, intentionally. Where their previous kisses had been the instant, un-ignorable sting of tequila, this was the slow burn of good whisky. John heard the snap of the cap of lube as though from a great distance and barely registered Sherlock’s hand sliding along his skin, nudging his legs further apart, stroking over his perineum. 

And then along the rim of his puckered hole. John felt himself clench and intentionally relaxed again, pulling away to draw a deep breath. Sherlock nipped at John’s ear, then trailed his lips slowly along John’s neck, nuzzling and sucking as his fingers slowly, intentionally opened John, prepared him. On the third stroke, he found John’s prostate and brushed against it every third or fourth stroke until John was writhing and gasping and begging. 

When Sherlock gave one final, slow stroke out and removed his fingers entirely, John was surprised to find he’d already sheathed and slicked himself, leaving John with barely a moment to mourn the loss of those fingers until they were replaced with Sherlock, pressing slowly, insistently in.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock’s voice was wrecked as he slid in and John wanted to distill that moment, keep it forever. Once he was fully seated, Sherlock stilled, giving John time to adjust, and leaned in to kiss him again. 

And then John’s hips were shift and Sherlock was withdrawing and pushing in again until they hit a rhythm. When Sherlock found the angle that made John’s breath catch in his throat, he made sure to maintain it and John’s world narrowed to the sound of flesh slapping against flesh as Sherlock’s hips drove in, the drag of Sherlock’s cock as he pulled out again, the scent of Sherlock’s skin and sex mingling in the air, the lingering taste of the man in John’s mouth, and the sight of his face, intensely focused on John.

Sherlock shifted slightly and suddenly everything was white for John – white noise filling his ears, white light blocking out all sight as he came, untouched.

As he came back down, he felt Sherlock’s rhythm pick up and squeezed around him. Sherlock groaned, his hips stuttering as he, too, climaxed. As he came down, Sherlock tucked his head under John’s chin, pressing sloppy kisses to John’s neck while John ran an exhausted hand over as much of Sherlock as he could touch. 

When Sherlock’s breathing started to even out, John sunk his fingers back into Sherlock’s hair and tugged him up for a quick kiss, first pressing his lips against Sherlock’s slightly slack ones, then against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock rested their foreheads together for a moment, then lifted up and rolled away, removing the condom and slipping out of bed. 

John stretched, eyes closed, trying to find the motivation to move and go tidy himself, covered in his own come as he was. He heard the water start up and then Sherlock was back, tugging him up. Sherlock positioned him so that John’s back was against Sherlock’s front and walked them into the bathroom and into the shower. They shared lazy kisses as they washed, dried, and made their way back to bed. 

John slid in, expecting Sherlock to follow. When he didn’t, John opened his eyes with a frown and saw Sherlock slipping his trousers back on.

“Oh,” John said.

Sherlock looked up, tilting his head in question.

John shook his head. “No, just thought you’d stay.”

Sherlock hesitated, his long fingers clasping the edges of his waistband. “I… can. I didn’t want to overstep.”

John flipped back the edge of the covers and let his eyes drift closed again, smiling as he heard Sherlock’s pants slide to the ground, heard the light click off, and felt Sherlock slide in next to him, the bed dipping under his weight.

John was lying flat on his back, one arm outstretched. Sherlock slotted himself in next to John, throwing one leg over John’s hip, foot nestled between John’s calves. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s head and felt Sherlock’s answering kiss to his neck.

When John woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. Shaking off his disappointment, John got up and got dressed, taming his hair with his comb and water from the sink. Double checking to make sure he’d grabbed everything, he picked up his bag and made his way down to the lobby. 

As he finished signing the paperwork, he heard Sasha say his name from across the lobby. Allowing himself a brief moment to grimace, he turned with a smile on his face to greet the newlyweds. “Morning, there, you two.”

“We missed you. You disappeared early. Janet was disappointed.”

“Oh, er. Yes. I…”

John’s heart caught in his throat as a deep, rumble of a voice behind him said, “Yes, afraid that’s my fault. I got in earlier than expected and dragged him away.” Sherlock held out a mug of tea to John, sliding his arm around John’s waist once John took it. “Sorry. I was hoping to make it back up to the room quicker. Already checked out then?”

“Yeah, just now,” John replied. To say he was thrown off-kilter would be putting it mildly.

“Breakfast before we head back?” Sherlock asked, taking a sip from his own mug.

“Yeah, breakfast would be good,” John lifted the drink he’d been handed and was surprised to find his tea made exactly to his preference.

Richard cleared his throat, “John?”

John looked at Richard and Sasha, both of whom regarded him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Ah, right. Sorry. Richard, Sasha, this is Sherlock.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock smiled, moving his hand from behind John to shake first Richard’s, then Sasha’s hand. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?” Sasha asked.

John started slightly.

Sherlock nodded.

“I was just telling Richard about that suicide case from a month ago. That’s you, right? With a name like Sherlock, I can’t imagine it was someone else.”

“No, that was me.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. We didn’t realise John was with someone now or we would have included you in the invitation.”

John tensed. He didn’t quite want them to know that Sherlock was a man he’d met in the hotel bar just the night before. 

“Quite alright,” Sherlock replied. John relaxed. “As it turned out, I would have been detained in London anyway. But, mustn’t let us keep you. You’ll miss your plane if you wait too much longer.”

Richard checked his watch. “Christ, you’re right. Off we go then. Thanks for coming, John. Nice to meet you, Sherlock. Perhaps we can all get dinner after we return from holiday.”

“Yeah, great,” John replied. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Together Sherlock and John watched the newlyweds walk away.

“Breakfast?” Sherlock asked. John hesitated, so Sherlock rushed on, “Or not. Just,” with a shift John was quite sure he couldn’t hope to replicate, Sherlock pulled out a small notebook and a pen, scribbled something down, tore out the page, and handed it to John. “Here’s my number. In case…I mean, if you …”

“Breakfast would be great,” John said as he took the paper. “Do you live in London, then?” John asked as they walked toward the small restaurant.

“Yes. In Montague Street,” Sherlock replied. “There’s a flat in Baker Street I have my eye on, but it wants a flat mate to be feasible.”

“I might be able to help you with that,” John said, grinning.

As far as weddings went, John later thought, this one hadn't been so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) come find me on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/awkwardtiming  
> 2) I love notes. They make me happy happy. And I generally respond.  
> 3) Let me know if this needs additional tags. Also, I love feedback. Really. Including, "Hey, you spelled something wrong." Of course, it helps if you tell me what and roughly where.


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